


The Time That Is Given To Us

by mainecoon76



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Belegost, Gen, but there are peaceful moments too, cross-cultural friendship, do I have to tag MCD when it's the Silm?, the second kinslaying is mentioned, unfortunately when writing First Age dwarves there's little choice but to write OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: Caranthir Fëanorion makes a friend among the Khazad of Gabilgathol.





	The Time That Is Given To Us

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Tolkien Secret Santa gift for [mooselk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mooselk/pseuds/mooselk)! (This is your AO3 name, isn't it?) 
> 
> Dear recipient, you asked for “Miriel Serinde or descendants, dwarves, Elrond, sfw/not shippy; angst is fine”. I hope this fits the bill! The names Nyrath and Sviur are taken from the Völuspá, the first stance of the Edda, which Tolkien used for a good number of dwarf names. And yeah, I know he said female dwarves don’t go to war, but there are 6000 years of history to be taken into account, so I took some artistic licence. 
> 
> Happy Holidays to you!

 

 

Deep in the Ered Luin, under the snow-clad peaks of Mount Dolmed, lay in ancient times the Dwarven City of Gabilgathol. No eye could detect it from outside, for the doors opened only to those who knew their spells; but mighty doors those were, and they led deep into the heart of the mountain, to spacious caverns with ceilings so high that they were ever shrouded in shadow, to mines so rich and smithies so excellent that the work from them was unrivalled, and a bustling city that was the home of craftspeople, traders, soldiers, artists and scholars.

No man ever saw the grandeur of that dwarven realm. The number of elves who were admitted can be counted on one hand. This honour was only granted to Maedhros, the Firehelm, who once dwelled with King Azaghâl, and to his brother Caranthir who was the Lord of the land north-west of the mountains. The latter was known to the Khazad as an excellent partner in trade, but many centuries passed before he was deemed worthy to look upon the wonders of the mighty fortress. Even then there were few of the Khazad who extended a hand in friendship, for it was not their way to trust those who were not of their kin.

Among those few was Nyrath, foremost among the jewel smiths of his generation.

 

When Nyrath was first introduced to Caranthir, he found the elf unnerving and misplaced in a dwarrow mine. Not that he had been allowed into the workshops; they were introduced in one of the King’s meeting chambers, and Nyrath had brought a collection of his best works. The elf folded his long limbs into a chair that was too small for him, ran his nimble fingers across the tiara Nyrath had placed before him, his eerie, glowing eyes examining every jewel; and then he offered a price that was precisely to the point. 

Nyrath haggled a bit, purely out of habit, and Caranthir sneered at him, which, as Nyrath understood much later, was his habitual reaction to puzzlement. He yielded little, but bought all that Nyrath was willing to part with. Even better, he commissioned several pieces that were much to the smith’s liking: interesting, ambitious, and very expensive.

 

When Caranthir told him he had seen the first sunrise, Nyrath took it for a joke. He roared for a full minute until he realized that Caranthir’s fingers clenched tightly around his quill, and red blotches had appeared on the elf’s cheeks.

“You are serious,” he said, bewildered.

“Indeed,” snapped Caranthir. “I should have known your race has no understanding of such matters.”

“But that must have been thirty generations and more…”

“Four hundred and thirty-two years of the sun,” drawled the elf, turning a page in his notebook and continuing to fill it with neat handwriting. Nyrath had always expected elvish script to be curved and flowery. Caranthir’s was neither.

“Of course, I was born long before that time,” continued Caranthir without looking up. “When did you say the lenses for those telescopes are going to be delivered?”

“In two days. It’s delicate work.” Nyrath watched his acquaintance with narrowed eyes. They had become regular partners in business other over the past decade, and now habitually met in the study Nyrath and his sister used for their paperwork. They talked of workmanship and sales, and sometimes a little about politics, but none of them had ever mentioned anything personal. “It is true, then,” he ventured. “Your people don’t die.”

“Not from old age.”

“What does one do, with so much time on the hands?”

Caranthir looked at him as if he questioned his sanity. This was a common occurrence, and Nyrath did not mind overmuch. Haughtiness could be dealt with, or, alternately, ignored. 

“You work, for a time,” Nyrath explained patiently. “It would be neat to have a few more centuries to practice the crafts, I’ll give you that. The glory one could achieve… perfection in every detail…” He picked up a heavy signet ring and let it slide through his fingers. The gold felt smooth and warm. “But eventually you’ve achieved all you could, no? What next?”

The elf let the quill sink onto the table and stared at him for a long moment. Nyrath forced himself not to shift in his chair. He had never quite gotten used to the strange light in Caranthir’s eyes.

“We have not achieved all we could,” Caranthir said after a while. 

“Well, you sure perfected that –,“ Nyrath gestured at the numbers, then hesitated. “This is about the Dark One, is it not?”

“Yes,” Caranthir said slowly. “Among other things.” But he would say no more of it, and thus they continued their work, while Nyrath silently wondered about the strangeness of those people from the West.

 

Caranthir ceased to visit when dark hordes overran the lands in the West. Khazad traders spoke of poisonous smoke that rose over Lake Helevorn, and a band of orcs now settled in the ruins of Caranthir’s castle. Rumour went that the elven king had fallen. Nyrath hoped that Caranthir was among those who had fled in time, and indeed he was, but it took over ten years before he came to Gabilgathol again. He wore no more fine silks or jewellery, only simple clothes of leather and rough linen.

“I can’t afford those anymore,” he said, pointing at the rubies in the hilt of Nyrath’s pen. “Jewels don’t feed anyone, and we’re mostly crafting weapons these days.”

“So you’ve not come to buy?”

Caranthir glowered at him, already half out of his chair. “I wished to see you. But if I am taking too much of your time…”

“Stay seated, friend.” Nyrath pushed the elf back into his seat and crossed to room towards the ale barrel. Caranthir was still staring at him when he returned with two tankards, his fingers kneading the shoulder where Nyrath had touched him. Perhaps he had been a little rough.

“So,” he resumed, wiping the foam from his beard. “Bad business these days?”

“The business of staying alive is the first priority.”

“Where have your people gone to, then?”

“That, I cannot tell you.” Caranthir nipped at his tankard, and his eyebrows shot up. “This is unusual.”

Nyrath laughed.

“But,” Caranthir continued, taking another gulp and clearly suppressing a shudder, “we make do as well as we can. I did come to trade, in fact, just not with you. We need weapons and tools.”

“Of course you do.”

“And…” The elf watched him thoughtfully. His long fingers traced the rim of his tankard. They looked rough and calloused now, with fingernails as dirty as a coal miner’s. “My brother has been talking to your king,” he continued after a long moment. “He is asking your people to go to war with us.”

Nyrath leaned back in his chair.

“It has not been decided, or so I hear,” said Caranthir. “Would you go to war with us, if I asked?”

“I’m not a warrior,” said Nyrath slowly. “The king would not permit it. But my sister Sviur – I am sure she would go.”

Caranthir nodded absently.

“Are you telling me,” Nyrath asked, “that you mean to attack the Black Lands?”

“I cannot tell you the details yet. Plans are being made. But should we succeed…” He broke off, but his eyes shone brighter than Nyrath had ever seen them before.  

“This is what you still want to achieve,” Nyrath muttered under his breath. “Ambitious goals, I’ll give you that.”

“Someone needs to do it.”

“Someone could lose their head if they try.” 

“It can hardly get worse than it is! If your people ever get out of these caves, you must know that fear poisons the life outside. The hordes of Morgoth roam the land, there is no safe travel - not even safety in our homes! We are losing lives every day. And those who are captured are worse than dead.” In the flickering lamplight Caranthir looked very old, as if the glamor of his ageless body was lifted for one rare moment, revealing the many centuries of his life.

“My brother thinks we can fight together,” he said urgently. “All the free people of Beleriand. We have the same enemy, we suffer the same horrors. We should unite against them and cast them off.”

Both fell silent for a while. 

“I will make sure you have a good sword,” Nyrath said. “The best I can find. I have excellent connections. But for now, since you’re here already, do you want take a look at my accounts? I have developed a new system, but I’m not sure it’s feasible.”

They did not talk again of warfare that day. In the following months Nyrath procured a magnificent sword. It was elven-sized - not that his sister would ever part with her axes - and made by the famous Telchar of Tumunzahar, who had been a distant relative. Nowadays no elf-lord could afford it, so it gathered dust in the King’s treasure chamber. The intended recipient held the King’s favour but Nyrath still paid a princely sum, and then blackmailed the elf into accepting it for a negligible price.

But the battle was lost.

 

Sviur returned with a battered band of warriors. The King was dead, and the slain, she told Nyrath in a voice that carried none of her usual cheer, had been too countless to put in stone. She had seen creatures born from a nightmare, hostile armies with endless supplies. Of the details she said little, but Nyrath heard what she did not say when she spoke of dismembered corpses, of a wall of fire that had heated her armour almost to the melting point while the elves beside them had burned to cinder, of King Azaghâl’s body that was crushed under a dragon’s belly. For the first time she had seen real war: the terror would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Few were admitted into Gabilgathol in the desperate years that followed, but Caranthir came to them once. Nyrath hardly recognized him. If his clothing had been plain before, it was now ragged, and his face was gaunt as if he barely ate. Since he and his entourage were generously fed on the new King’s orders, Nyrath gave him the only gift he would accept: a visit to the springs of the river Ascar, a place of outstanding beauty that no elf had ever seen before. It was less than a day’s walk from Nyrath’s dwelling, during which Caranthir complained loudly about the lack of open space and dwarven affinity for dark, narrow tunnels; but in the end he stood and looked in wonder. The path ended on a precipice over an underground lake, and far above them water emerged from a fissure in the rock and fell in a glittering veil before them. Green light filled the cave, produced by several species of luminescent fungi that were plentiful in Gabilgathol’s cave systems. 

“This is one of the most magnificent places I have ever seen,” admitted the elf when they had settled on the precipice. “And I have seen many beautiful things.”

Nyrath unpacked a loaf of bread and a large chunk of goat cheese.“I thought you would like it,” he said. “Especially in times like these, when the world outside has fallen into despair. We worried about you.”

“Rightly so,” said Caranthir. “We had little beauty to enjoy, since… the defeat.”

The expression on his face was oddly familiar. Sviur looked like that when she remembered the battle.

“I am sorry,” said Nyrath. “You did what you could.”

“Oh, did I?” Caranthir's voice was bitter. “Did your sister tell you that my allies betrayed us? It was my fault that I did not see through them.”

Nyrath shrugged. “The Dark One’s schemes are wicked, or so I hear,” he objected. “It does not do to take blame for them.” 

“I had a feeling that something would go wrong, but I could not place it. It was almost like -” He broke off, frowning. Nyrath waited. 

“I have felt like that before,” the elf said. “It is an ill fate to sense doom, but not how to escape it. And now there is nothing left for us, no hope to achieve what we set out to do… save…” Again he stopped, sharply, and paused for a long moment. “Nyrath,” he said then. “For your folk, the work of your hands is sacred. If one day you surpassed yourself - created the work of your lifetime, the essence of your soul - and if that work was stolen, what would you do?” 

“Take it back,” said Nyrath, without consideration. “No dwarrow would ever commit such a crime.”

“And if someone stole it from the thief, and refused to return it?"

“They would be little better than the thief.” Nyrath’s eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”

“It is about our doom,” said Caranthir, but he would speak no more of it. Nyrath let him be, and their conversation turned to trade and crafting and places of beauty Caranthir had seen in his youth.

Later, Nyrath often cursed himself for not being more insistent.

 

When they parted, they made plans to meet again and hike along the underground river far beneath the treasure vaults. But Caranthir did not return. Both Nyrath and Sviur grieved when the relations between elves and dwarves went bitter over a necklace and a jewel, when another elven King was slain and Tumunzahar fell. Nyrath often wondered what Caranthir’s people thought of it, and if this was the reason why no elf was seen near Gabilgathol for many long years. 

One day in midwinter, almost thirty years after Nyrath had last seen his elven friend, his sister brought tidings from a trade journey. Nyrath wished she had not.

„I don’t believe a word of it,” he shouted and slammed his fist against the kitchen wall. „These are the lies of the Dark One!”

„I wish it was so.” Sviur looked worn, more so than she usually did when she returned to the safety of Gabilgathol. Her copper beard was frazzled and escaping the braids, and there were stains of orc blood on her travelling cloak. Worse than that was the resignation in her eyes. His sister was not young, but for the first time she looked like she was ageing. They both were.

„He cannot be dead,“ Nyrath raged, pacing back and forth in his fury. „He’s an _elf._ He saw the first sunrise! They aren’t supposed to - they can be slain, yes. By Morgoth and his brood. Not by their own kin!“

„I told you,“ said his sister, running a broad hand over her face and leaving a trail of dirt behind. „Lofar said he got it from Faineth herself. You know she was one of the advisors who...“

„Lofar tells you much over a pint or two!“

„That isn’t true, and you know it.“

Both siblings fell into desperate silence. From far off came the soft rumble of an explosion: mining works in the new tunnel near the silverlode. They were used to it.

Nyrath collapsed into his seat and clenched his hands into his beard. Images came to him unbidden: between the magnificent pillars of Menegroth his ageless friend lay spread out in a pool of blood, the unearthly light in his eyes extinguished, limp fingers still curled around the hilt of Narsil. Had he used it to slaughter his own kin, instead of the orcs it was meant for?

„Lofar said,“ continued Sviur heavily, „that Caranthir and his brothers had sworn to retrieve the Cursed Jewel because it was stolen from them. The King of Menegroth did not like them, so he did not give it back. That’s what Faineth told Lofar.“ 

„So they took it by force.“ 

„They tried. They did not find it. It was all for nothing.“ 

_What would you do if someone stole your greatest work from a thief, and refused to return it ? - They would be little better than the thief._

Nyrath felt sick in his stomach.

„Menegroth is destroyed,“ he said, because he could not believe it.

Sviur nodded, listlessly turning her tankard in her hands. „I wonder,“ she said, „what would have happened if Tumunzahar had taken the jewel.“

„They would have bargained! Any sensible person would have done so.”

„Aye, but would they?“ Sviur’s smile was grim. „The elves had little to offer them. And Caranthir was no diplomat! Remember what the history books say about him, that he deemed us unlovely and thought us inferior to the likes of him? I wonder if his brothers were the same.“

„But he did not know us then! He’s rash and haughty, yes, but -“ Nyrath broke off and covered his eyes. „He _was_. No! My heart does not believe it.” 

Sviur reached out and pressed his hand before she rose. “Let me clean the dirt off my skin,” she said. “The roads are nearly impassable in the snow. Had it not been for the ill tidings, I would have stayed in the elf-land for a month or two.”

“What does the King say?” Nyrath persisted, unwilling to give up his resistance.

“That it reeks of the Dark One’s devilry, whoever wielded the blades. But he believes it is true.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, brother.”

A bowl of soup hit the wall after the door had slid back into place behind her.

 

Nyrath wandered the halls of Gabilgathol for many hours. Twice he lingered near the main gates, now safely shut against the ice and storm. He longed to pack a bag and take the road to Caranthir’s former lands, to find out the truth behind the rumors, but it was of no use. He would not survive a week. 

Messengers from other settlements arrived in spring, and then Nyrath could no longer doubt the truth of the terrible tale. In his work he sought solace against his grief, as he had when relatives and friends had fallen in the battle of the great union. But it was not a fight against evil that had taken his friend’s life: the same elf whose eyes had shone brightly when he spoke of the union of the free people had now died with the blood of his own kin on his hands. Nyrath thought about him often, and wondered how hope could prevail when the immortal died and allies killed allies instead of the monsters that meant to enslave them. He never found an answer.

Nyrath had no more dealings with elves. He remembered his friend in fondness and sorrow and could not bring himself to think ill of him, despite the evil deeds that had led to Caranthir’s end. Many of Nyrath’s works endured over time and were counted among the famous treasures of the Khazad, though few remembered his name when centuries passed after his death and the ruins of Gabilgathol disappeared beneath the Sea. And yet the story of this unlikely friendship was not lost. The sword Narsil was kept by Caranthir’s brother Maglor, and he passed it on to Elros, son of Elwing, who had escaped Menegroth when it fell. Elros’ heirs held it in honour and achieved great deeds with it. But his brother Elrond was a loremaster who preserved the memory of the jewel smith of Gabilgathol, and of his friendship with Caranthir the Dark, son of Fëanor, one of the most infamous elves in the history of Arda; and he made a record of it and kept it in the library of Rivendell, so that good things that had happened in times of darkness would not be forgotten.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Askmiddleearth](http://askmiddlearth.tumblr.com/post/95833031239/who-originally-owned-narsil) makes a quite convincing case for the idea that Caranthir might have been the first elven owner of Narsil. Whether or not he used it in the kinslaying is anyone’s guess.
> 
> The title is taken from the Fellowship of the Ring. Unfortunately not everyone makes wise use of the time given to them, even if they set out with good intentions. But I like to think that the small things matter, too.


End file.
